I recently finished the last book in The Expanse series, by James S.A. Corey, and my heart is so full of these books. Because I’d already seen the television series, I often knew the broad strokes of the events in the first six books before they happened. But I was still engrossed by the deeper view into the characters the books provide. I also enjoyed playing a little game with myself as I read (or listened) — I would try to determine why I thought certain choices had been made in the adaptation. But it was the final three volumes that entranced me and left me both melancholy and elated.
There is a thirty-year jump between the events of books six and seven, but there are still many familiar characters, and a host of new ones every bit as compelling as those we’ve known since book one. I could go on at length about the scope of the story the books tell, the characterization, the many themes explored, the use of language, or the masterful handling of chapters and point of view switching. But I’m not going to talk about any of that. Instead, I’m going to talk about the specific theme that I most appreciated: the inevitability of grief.
I don’t think it’s going to come as any great spoiler that people age and die, even in the future. And if you watched the series, maybe you had the sense that no character was really safe. I know I did, and that feeling was even stronger in the books. There is so much emphasis — in the series, but even more strongly in the books — on the family that is the crew of the Rocinante. Found family. The family that you choose. They had extended family, like Avasarala, and Fred Johnson, and of course, Miller. And the core family grew over the years, as families do. And sometimes, it shrank, as families do. If you have had the great good fortune, as I have, to live a long life and to have known and loved many people, you will know the pain of their loss. It will be a thing you live with from that point forward, as much a part of your daily existence as their presence was.
Lucille Clifton describes the feeling most succinctly in her poem, November 1, 1975.
For sixteen years of minutes
she has been what is missing.
James S.A. Corey describes it more slowly and luxuriously, lingering in a character’s head as they reflect on those they’re separated from by death or circumstance. It’s never maudlin. It’s never even especially depressing. It’s human. These characters are people who have loved and who still love, and will always love, even when they will never hear the loved one’s voice, see their smile, or feel their touch again. This is their reality, and the love was worth it. I don’t think any of them ever explicitly express that thought, but it’s there in their every reminiscence. It was worth it.
This is, of course, a topic that is as much about me as it is about the books. I can imagine that some readers might not have been impacted the way I was and might have found other aspects of the story — like (my 2nd favorite theme) the recurring allusions to how humanity continues to advance in knowledge and technology but appears to be done evolving — far more engaging. But for me, their portrayal of grief – the most personal and the most universal of emotions – was so rich and real that I felt not only that I understood these characters, but that they would understand me.